What You Own
by Joanne Mariexx
Summary: He might not make it to thirty, but he's trying.
1. Part 1: Impulse (Chapter 1)

**A/N: What a crappy summary. I'll fix it eventually. (Edit: I keep changing it, but it will take me years to settle on a good one. Bear with me.) Well, ****hiya! I posted this first chapter to a story about a month ago, and then took it down to give myself time to better prepare for the monster I hope this story will become. I gave myself until my last final exam (which was yesterday, whoo) to write as much as I could, and now it's time to finally put it up. And leave it up! Special thanks to Covalent Bond for being wonderful and giving me advice on how to approach this - you're the best!**

**My plan right now is to post a chapter every week, but to be honest, I don't know how long that's going to last. Fair warning. But this will be finished! I guarantee you, 100%.  
**

**Alright, so... that's pretty much all I have to say. Enjoy, and don't forget to leave a review!  
**

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_Part 1: Impulse__ - _a force acting on a body and producing a finite change of momentum.

* * *

"Today is the sort of day where the sun only comes up to humiliate you."  
― Chuck Palahniuk, _Fight Club_

Two (and a half) Days Before

He bolts up and nearly topples from his bed in the dark, and after a few moments of dazedly groping for his ringing cell phone, he clears his throat and answers.

"Lance Sweets," he mumbles, sleep still heavy in his voice. He rubs his eyes with the hand that's not holding his phone to his ear and blinks a few times. And when that doesn't wake him up at all, he gives up and just hopes that this conversation will be quick, and that he can go back to sleep soon.

If only.

"Oh, good, you're awake!" Seeley Booth's sarcastically cheery reply echoes through the phone.

Sweets glances at the alarm clock on the nightstand, and as the _3:30am_ shines back at him, he has to really try to hold back an irritated sigh.

"I am _now_," he answers, although it's not _quite_ true yet. And, although he's sure he already knows the answer to his own question, he continues by asking, "What's up?"

"Got a new case – a body found about an hour ago in Takoma."

"And I would be able to help you… how?" Sweets asks carefully, more than slightly confused. He's not normally called in when the body is found. It's usually the next day that he's notified about a case, when he finds the files and photos on his desk as soon as he comes in. This time, though…

"Well, a few of the teenagers who found the body are pretty freaked out. Not really talking, won't answer any of our questions. And we're not allowed to let them go home until we get their statements, so we need someone who actually knows what they're doing to come and calm them down. Plus, maybe you could take a look at the scene, see what you can deduce."

Sweets sighs. He went to bed – what, three hours ago? He's bone tired. Plus, he's been sick, and he's pretty sure he _really_ needs sleep. Still… if he's needed, he should go. Why drag someone else out of bed to handle it? He'll deal with it, maybe find some time to sleep later. Whatever.

"Fine," he says. "You'll have to give me some time, though. I'm, like, forty minutes away from there."

"Okay. But just so you know, if you get caught speeding, I can _probably_ get you out of it."

Sweets chuckles at that. "Nice. Okay, I'll see you in a bit."

He hangs up the phone and places it back on his nightstand before getting up from his bed. As he throws the covers off of himself, the cold air makes him seriously consider going back to sleep for _just_ a few more minutes. But no. He is a twenty-eight year old man with a steady job, not some high school student dreading a Monday morning. He can deal with being tired, and he can deal with the cold. He won't be happy about it, but he can deal with it.

The next fifteen minutes are spent rushing to get ready. After brushing his teeth, he changes into his suit as quickly as he can, pausing only to wonder when, exactly, his pants became so loose around his waist. Slightly confused, he pulls on his belt until the prong is a few inches past the last hole and wonders how that could have happened. And with a sigh, he realizes that the elastic probably stretched in the washing machine. It's an old pair of pants, anyway. That happens once in a while. The only belt he could find in his closet, on the other hand, is new. He bought it a few weeks ago, but it's just been sitting in his closet since then. He hasn't worn it.

And apparently, he bought the wrong size.

And that's just his luck.

With an irritated sigh, he considers finding something to poke a new hole in the belt with (He has a lot of practice doing that, having always been on the smaller side as a kid.) but decides against it. It would take too long, and he just doesn't have the time. He doesn't even have time to _think_ too long on any of this, so he just lets his pants sit there, uncomfortably loose on his hips. He makes a mental note to fix it later and continues getting ready.

After a few more minutes of running around and fumbling in the dark, he's ready enough and heading out the door. He writes a quick note to his roommates, sticks it on the kitchen table, and only just remembers his car keys before leaving the house.

He makes it to the scene in just under forty minutes, having only sped a _little bit_. (In truth, he probably could have driven a bit faster, considering that, at three in the morning, there are next to no cars on the road; but he's not really a speeder anyway. He doesn't have that sort of death wish.)

After parking his car on the side of the road opposite the crime scene, he gets out and walks over to the flashing lights and police tape. There are only a few cars parked on the street, though, probably because most of the people who were called to the scene have gone home. Now, in addition to the few remaining FBI agents doing last minute documentation, it's just Booth, the kids who found the remains, and a few parents. And, Sweets notes as he approaches them, no one seems at all cooperative.

"This is ridiculous!" one mother is shouting at Booth. "We've been here for hours, and there's no reason you can't take their statements in the morning! They're upset and need _sleep_!"

Visibly trying very hard to keep from shouting back, Booth calmly answers, "I know, ma'am. I'm sorry. Believe me, I'd be _glad_ to let you all go home, but we're not allowed to leave the scene until we have everyone's initial statements, okay? We've got a psychologist coming to talk to them as we speak, he's on his –"

"Right here," Sweets interrupts from behind the agent, raising his hand in a small gesture.

Booth sighs in relief. "He's right here," he finishes, and as Sweets begins to follow the parents back to their kids, Booth pulls him aside by his suit jacket for a brief second and mutters in his ear, "It's about time!" And as Booth releases him, Sweets just shrugs defensively and whispers back.

"I said I was forty minutes away – I made it in, like, thirty five!"

"It's been an hour since I called you."

"Well, did you expect me to show up in pajamas? 'Cause if that's what you wanted, then next time, I'll know better."

Booth sighs again, but before he can say anything else, another parent is impatiently shouting for them to hurry up.

The two look at each other with the same annoyed expression on their faces and, completely forgetting their momentary argument, walk over to the group of people.

Sweets turns to the parents.

"I'm sorry," he says. "But I'm going to have to ask you all to step away for a few minutes while I talk to them."

Though some of the parents are inclined to argue, they eventually cooperate. And after a few minutes alone with the four teenagers, Sweets is able to get them relatively calmed down and take their statements; to their parents' surprise, the teens were smoking and drinking when they found the body. Or, rather, they were _intending_ to start smoking and drinking. They figured the hilly wooded area behind an unoccupied house was the perfect place for all of this, but they never got the chance to start. As they started to walk down one of the steeper hills, they found the body, face up and only partially covered with dirt, autumn leaves and broken twigs.

"Alright," Booth says to the group. "You can all go home now. We'll contact you if we need any more information."

The parents, now caught between concern for their kids and anger over what they were doing, start ushering the teenagers into their cars, and within two minutes, they're all gone. Booth turns to Sweets.

"Alright, I think the crime scene is pretty straightforward," he explains. "But just take a look, see what's what."

Sweets nods. "Okay, just show me where it is."

They grab some flashlights from the other FBI agents as Booth dismisses them. Booth then leads Sweets to where the body was found, just past the top of one of the steeper hills on the lot. There are still markers sticking up from the loose dirt and scattered leaves, and there's even more police tape around here than around the perimeter of the area, which is saying something. Booth and Sweets shine their flashlights on the ground.

"Shallow grave," Booth explains. "Doesn't look like whoever did this put any effort into hiding the body."

Sweets nods in agreement. "Yeah…. So I'm assuming it's not premeditated. Otherwise, the body would probably be in an even more obscure place than this. I'm thinking the murder was either accidental, and the killer was panicking and hid the body in the first place they could find, or the killer was cognitively impaired when the murder took place and couldn't think of anything more inconspicuous."

"So, a complete accident, or the killer was drunk?" Booth clarifies, and Sweets tilts his head to the side a bit.

"Drunk, high, stoned, whatever impairs brain function. Which could be anything, I guess. I'm just throwing some ideas around, though - this isn't, like, a formal profile."

"Yeah, I know," Booth says. "Still, it might give me an idea of where to start. Thanks."

Sweets smiles and replies, "I'd say any time, but I'd rather not be called at three thirty in the morning next time there's a body…."

"Yeah, yeah. Come on." Booth gestures for Sweets to follow him back up to the street, and they start walking. And they almost make it to the top of the hill, too, before an unfortunately placed tree root gets in the way. It's Sweets' foot that gets snagged, and since he's been walking slightly in front of Booth, he ends up knocking Booth down with him when he loses his balance and falls, and they both end up tumbling to the bottom of the hill, cussing the whole way down.

Now covered in dirt, the wind knocked out of both of them, they just lay there coughing for a few moments. Then, as Booth pulls himself up of the ground, he starts to snap.

"_What the hell was that?_" he seethes, dusting himself off.

"Sorry," Sweets coughs, still on the ground but slowly picking himself up. "Tripped on a tree branch or something. You okay?"

Booth, although he's still rather annoyed, reaches down and helps Sweets up off the ground. "I'm okay. You?"

"I'm good," Sweets answers, though he starts to doubt his answer when he feels the cold November air on his legs. He freezes. _Nope. No way._

"Uh… Booth?" he asks, blood rushing to his cheeks.

Booth, having turned around to pick his up his flashlight that he dropped when he fell, replies over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"My pants… are not… completely on my body, are they?" Sweets asks with a resigned sigh, although it sounds more like a statement because he already knows the answer.

More than slightly confused, Booth turns around and shines his flashlight at Sweets' ankles for a brief moment. Sure enough, the psychologist's pants are loosely gathered around his ankles as he stands awkwardly, with his hands held stiffly at his sides and a mortified expression on his face aimed toward the trees.

Booth restrains himself for the moment, clears his throat and simply answers, "Nope."

"Please tell me my underwear's still on…"

Booth shines his flashlight at Sweets' ankles for a second time and doesn't see anything other than the kid's pants.

"You're good."

Immediately, Sweets sighs in relative relief and scrambles to get his pants back on while Booth finally starts laughing.

"You know, Sweets," Booth chuckles. "They started making these really cool things called _belts._ You might want to invest in one."

Sweets flashes him an annoyed glare as he silently shows him the buckle of his belt that's still threaded through the loops on his pants. He makes a move to tighten the belt, but, remembering that he was already on the last hole, ends up just pretending to tighten it and calling it close enough.

Booth just continues to laugh.

"Hey, aren't you a bit old for the whole 'sagging pants' thing?" he cracks another joke, and Sweets just runs his hands down his own face.

"You're _so_ _funny_, Booth," Sweets replies. "_Really_. Have you ever considered stand-up?"

"Already done it, remember? Either way, I'm funnier than _you_ are," Booth says, grabbing Sweets' shoulder and gently nudging him to start walking back up the hill. "And come on, you have to admit that was funny!"

"For you."

"For me. Seriously, that made my night."

Sweets stops walking for a second and incredulously glares at the back of Booth's head as the agent keeps walking.

"_I'm glad I could help."_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello again! Thank you SO much to everyone who reviewed/favorited/followed. Made my week! Alright, a few things I forgot to mention last time - first, the cases in this story will all probably be terribly dumbed down, because my research can only do so much for me and I have absolutely no experience writing cases, haha. And speaking of research - I put a lot of effort into making sure my facts are right whenever I post a story, save for a few things I have to fudge to keep the story going, so if you could please let me know if you catch anything incorrect, that would be great! I'll always let you know when I fudge something on purpose. And my last note is that this story takes place about halfway through season 8, minus the Pelant arc. :) Again, thank you all so much for the positive feedback on the first chapter - I hope this doesn't disappoint!**

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"'How to Commit the Perfect Murder' was an old game in heaven. I always chose the icicle: the weapon melts away."  
― Alice Sebold, _The Lovely Bones_

Two Days Before

Cam swipes her ID card across the scanner and, when the monitor beeps in approval, walks onto the platform where Brennan, Angela, and Wendell are already working on identifying the remains that were found. Markers stick up from the facial bones as Angela snaps pictures, and Brennan is starting to analyze the bones as Wendell brushes the last bits of dirt off of the victim's rib cage.

"Alright," Cam says, stretching a latex glove onto each hand. "How's everything going?"

Cue the rundown. Wendell looks up at her, puts his brush on a nearby tray, and answers, "Well, the bones are just about clean and Hodgins is getting time of death as we speak. In regards to the victim…"

Brennan swings the imaging scope over the bones and cuts him off. "In regards to the victim, the narrow pelvic inlet and the angled nasal bones suggest a Caucasian male. And, based on the remodeling, I'd say he was in his early to mid-thirties."

Turning to scribble a few notes onto a clipboard by the computer, Cam nods. "Okay…. I've taken the tissue samples, and the tox screen results should be back in a few days."

There are a few more shutter snaps from Angela's camera before the artist looks up at everyone and says that she has enough pictures to start a facial reconstruction. Cue her exit; and once she leaves the room to put the pictures into her computer, Wendell starts removing the markers from the skull, one by one. Once he's finished, he re-joins Dr. Brennan and continues to help analyze the bones.

"Could the damage to the skull point to a head injury being the cause of death?" he asks, closely eyeing the severe fractures along the entire right side. There are deep, widespread breaks, holes here and there where large chunks of bone had been broken off. The damage to the head seems to be the body's most prominent feature. That isn't to say, of course, that the rest of the damage is not also completely obvious.

Brennan slowly shakes her head.

"Not conclusively," she explains. "While at first glance it seems like the most serious injury sustained, we can't ignore the rest of the damage that could yield other possibilities. The striations along the entire right side of the body, for instance. Whatever caused those striations could have punctured a major blood vessel, or damage to other major organs. We have to look at _all_ of the possibilities, Mr. Bray."

Cue a humble acceptance as Wendell nods, offers a quick, "Of course," and continues to work.

Continues to work, that is, until Hodgins comes onto the platform a few minutes later, placing the time of death at about two weeks ago. The extreme decomposition, he says, was due to the bugs and animals in the surrounding area.

"Not to mention," he adds. "The recent humidity and the rain we had a few days ago."

Cam nods and just finishes writing that on her clipboard before Angela reappears with a missing person report in one hand and announces that she found an I.D.

Cue the case.

* * *

"Alright, got an I.D. on the victim," Booth announces as he enters Sweets' office with an air of motivation, a spring in his step, and a file in his hands. He is almost excited, because up until this point, the investigation has been going smoothly as ever; and he's hoping it will stay that way. There is nothing in the world nicer than a simple, straightforward case. Well, maybe there are a few things. But still – an open-shut case would be a gift.

Sweets turns from the computer he was working at and gets up to meet Booth by the doorway. Before he can start asking about the victim, though, Booth inspects him closely and changes the subject for a brief moment.

"Hey, you look _awesome_," he says, nodding his head with the slightest bit of concern and curiosity toward Sweets' pale face, where dark circles are just starting to form below his eyes. He flashes half a smile and continues. "Guess teenagers really _do_ need their sleep."

Sweets forces a sarcastic, irritated laugh. "Wow, _more_ hilarious jokes in one day. You're on a roll."

"I know. You okay?" Booth replies, placing the file down on the table in between the two couches and sitting down on one. Sweets sits down across from him.

"Yeah, yeah," Sweets answers quickly. "I mean, I've been sick, so don't touch anything, but it's fine."

Booth nods before turning his attention back to the case, speaking as Sweets reads along. "Alright, so our victim's name was Chase Miller. Thirty-five, married, white-collar job at an advertising company. He was reported missing by his wife about two weeks ago, right around the time he died."

After he finishes reading the whole report, Sweets closes the file and hands it back to Booth.

"Okay, nothing really looks suspicious," he says. "Nothing written _here_ does, at least."

"Exactly. I was thinking we'd go pay the family a visit, if you're up to it?"

Automatic, Sweets nods and waves his hand dismissively. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'll meet you downstairs in ten minutes?"

Booth's positive answer comes just as he's leaving the room, and soon Sweets is alone again with his tired eyes and a vague pain in his stomach and a miserable desire to just stay here and not go anywhere else today but home. He just automatically said he'd go, however – and it's too late to back out now.

With a sigh, he hurries to put the finishing touches on his previous assignment and gets ready to go, hoping that this will be fairly quick.

But since when is anything fairly quick anymore?

* * *

The woman who answers the door just seems to _know_. She opens the door, looks the two men up and down, and knows _exactly_ why they're there, because two suited men don't just show up at someone's door to say that everything is fine. Her face falls and she just stares for a few moments.

Then she shakes her head. "No," she says, almost pleading. "No."

Nervously pursing his lips for a moment, Booth slowly nods his head. He waits a few moments before answering. "I'm sorry. Can we come in?"

"Mommy?" a voice echoes through the hallway before the woman can answer. A young girl toddles into view, her two little pigtails bouncing as she moves. She stumbles over her own feet and falls into her mother's legs. "Mommy."

A blank expression lingers on the woman's face for a moment before she turns to her daughter and slowly picks her up. She clears her throat. "What's wrong?"

The child pays the men at the door no mind as she pouts at her mother and mumbles, "Dylan drew on the wall again," as if that wall was the most sacred thing in the whole wide world and it was now irreparably damaged by the child in the other room.

There's a halfhearted smile on the mother's face in spite of the tears brimming in her eyes as she runs her fingers through her little girl's hair. "It's alright," she says. "I'll be there in a few minutes, okay? Mommy's a little busy right now."

There's a tiny _okay_ before the girl wriggles out of her mother's arms and runs back into the house.

"I'm so sorry. Please come in." She turns and leads the two into the living room, where they sit around a cluttered coffee table. "I'm Deanna, by the way. You probably knew that already."

She swallows and apologizes again. "Sorry, just… please, say what you came to say."

Booth and Sweets look at each other for a moment before Booth clears his throat and slowly speaks. "Mrs. Miller, I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth, and this here is Dr. Sweets. I'm very sorry, but your husband's body was found last night in a neighborhood about ten minutes from here, and we have reason to think he may have been murdered. Is there anyone that may have had a problem with him, anyone at all?"

"Murdered?" she whispers, shocked. Tears spill over and trail down her cheeks at the very thought of it. "N-no. God, no, Chase is – everyone loved him. He was a good man, Agent Booth."

There is a short shriek from the other room, followed by the sound of a crying child. Deanna wipes her eyes and is up out of her seat in a second, and Booth and Sweets are left alone in the living room as she tends to her children. As the mother softly reprimands the troublemaker and comforts the victim, Sweets stands from the sofa and slowly, silently starts moving around the room, analyzing what he sees.

"Anything?" Booth asks after a few moments.

"Well, he was definitely a family-man," Sweets notes, gesturing to the framed pictures scattered around the room. Wedding photos, family picnics, first days of school, evenings spent reading to the children, all on display on the mantel, the walls, the end tables. He glances down at the coffee table to find an open photo album with even more pictures. He studies each and every one on the open page. "Probably valued his family more than anything else in his life. Looks like he took most of these pictures, and Mrs. Miller probably just brought them all out to try and cope with his disappearance."

Booth nods, and Deanna soon reenters the room with a whimpering Dylan propped against her hip. The boy's head is buried in her shoulder as she sits back down and holds him close.

Booth smiles halfheartedly at the young boy. "Uh, Mrs. Miller – If you don't mind, when was the last time you saw your husband?"

"About two weeks ago," she answers, stroking her son's hair. "He, uh… he was upset. Something happened at work, something about the files on his computer. I don't really remember. He was also on one of his swings, so he went out for the night and I didn't think anything of it until… until he never came back."

"Swings?" Sweets asks, turning from where he stood by the mantel. "Like -"

"He was bipolar," Deanna says after a moment's hesitation.

"Was he taking medication for it?"

"Yeah," she nods. "Prozac and Zyprexa."

"Together?"

"Usually."

"And how were they working for him? Did they ever cause negative effects in his behavior?" Sweets asks, sitting back down next to Booth.

"They'd been working well for him for years. Never had a problem with them. I mean, sometimes the meds would make him tired or give him a headache once in a while, but that's all."

Sweets nods.

"So," Booth says. "No problems with the meds. He didn't say where he was going?"

Deanna shakes her head. Before she can get another word out, however, there is another interruption from the other room – a heavy crash seems to shake the floor, a timid _oops_ following it. There's a resigned sigh from the mother as she stands, her son still on her right side, and apologizes for her children's behavior once again to the two men, who simply apologize for her loss and say goodbye.

* * *

"The particulates you found were hydrocarbon-based, with traces of petroleum. Looks like common asphalt," Hodgins walks into the bone room and gently places the small dish onto a nearby tray.

Wendell looks up at him. "So he was dragged across pavement… with enough force to embed bits of the asphalt into his bones?"

"That seems perfectly consistent with the damage," Brennan adds, not looking up from her work. "With a high enough velocity, dragging could sufficiently tear away the flesh and splinter the bones like this. However, I'd imagine there would also be damage around the wrists or the ankles or someplace where he could have been bound. And there's nothing to suggest he was pulled at all."

"Could he have been pulled by his clothing?" Wendell suggests, doubt in his voice that is soon confirmed.

"It's possible… but highly unlikely. It would be nearly impossible to drag someone by their clothing with that much force unless there was some machine involved; and then whatever clothing he was wearing would have torn before he could be dragged very far. Dr. Hodgins, what were his clothes made out of?"

"Uh, his shirt was a cotton-polyester mix, and he was wearing jeans."

"Right," Wendell cuts in. "So that rules out the dragged-by-his-clothes theory…."

"So I would continue to search for another cause of death, Mr. Bray," Brennan finishes, pulling her latex gloves off of her hands and leaving the room.

With a sigh, Wendell returns to his work with a vague feeling that, although the last few minutes were not _exactly_ useless, he's starting again from square one.

Oh, well. He's used to it by now. _C'est la vie_, after all, when working with Dr. Brennan, but he wouldn't have it any other way.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hi guys! Time for another chapter. Again, thanks to everyone who's been supporting this story, you guys are the best. Also, sorry it's been moving a little slowly - I'm pretty sure you guys didn't follow just to read about a poorly-written case. But it'll be picking up soon, within the next few chapters. I promise. :) Enjoy the chapter, and don't forget to leave a review!**

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"You have to know when to prod and when to be quiet, when to let things take their course."  
― Sue Monk Kidd, _The Secret Life of Bees_

One Day Before

"Well, I didn't think it would happen," Sweets says, dragging his feet into Booth's office, unannounced. "But we got a fully cooperative psychiatrist for once."

Booth looks up from his desk to see Sweets walking in with a few documents in hand.

"Way to knock. Is he here?"

Sweets shakes his head, ignoring the comment. "No. He couldn't make it in, had too many appointments. But he sent over Miller's prescriptions and the drug information for both of them. He also said that he had been on those medications for the past eleven years and hadn't experienced any major problems, so that confirms what his wife said."

He puts the information on Booth's desk and the agent looks it over for a few brief seconds before standing up.

"Okay, that gets us somewhere. Was Miller still seeing this guy?"

"Not regularly. He said that they'd set up appointments every once in a while, just to touch base, but everything seemed fine. He said that Miller was very high-functioning when he was medicated."

Booth nods. "Gotcha. Alright, I called in Miller's boss. She's waiting for us up in the conference room."

"Okay, good," Sweets says, stifling a sudden yawn, hoping to be discreet about it. Discretion, however, is a difficult thing to maintain around Seeley Booth, and the agent makes no secret of noticing.

"Still sick, I see," he notes, changing the subject, watching the other man quickly rub his tired eyes with the bases of his palms.

Sweets offers a quiet sigh and replies with a light "Yeah, kinda." It's a hell of an understatement, though, because he feels just as miserable as he did yesterday, if not more so. He's long past overtired, with the same soreness he's had and the same futile desire to just go home. But with an ongoing murder investigation, who could afford that? And regardless, he can suck it up like an adult. It's not a big deal.

"Ever consider going to the doctor?" Booth suggests, casual, walking out of the room with Sweets in tow. The younger man nods.

"Already went, actually," he explains. "Had my regular physical a few days ago, they just did a few extra things while I was there. I'm going back tomorrow for the results, and they'll probably just hand me some Tylenol or something. So back to the victim's boss..."

"Nicole Darzi, thirty-six years old, manager of Stark Digital Advertising."

Sweets nods as they both fall silent, and that's the end of their conversation as they reach the elevator. The two step inside, hit the button that will take them upstairs, and prepare to meet with their latest interviewee as the door closes and up they go.

* * *

"Hey, guys," Hodgins says, entering the bone room. "I analyzed some of the particulates Cam found on the flesh around the wrists. Turns out it's leather."

The pathologist echoes him with a confused expression on her face and gestures to the remains on the slab. "Leather around his wrists? But there's no evidence on the bones to suggest he was bound."

Finally looking away from the bones in front of her, Brennan walks over to her colleagues and considers this for a moment.

"Well, actually, there's no evidence to suggest there was _pressure_ put on the victim's wrists. Perhaps he wasn't struggling against any bonds. He could have been unconscious." She points back to the remains. "However, there is no evidence on the skull to suggest that he was knocked unconscious _before_ he died."

Hodgins nods and looks back at Cam.

"Could he have been drugged?"

The pathologist thinks this over for a few seconds and answers, "Maybe. If there were any drugs in his system at time of death, they'll show up on the tox report when it gets back. It's due back in about… two days?"

She walks over to a computer and types in a few quick commands.

"Yeah," she verifies. "Two days."

"Uh, guys?" Wendell, silent up until this point, calls from his position by the bones. "Sorry, just throwing an idea out there – what if the victim was thrown? Like, from a moving vehicle? That could explain the striations and the gravel, and if he was unconscious and bound, it would be consistent with the lack of damage to the wrists."

There's a pause as everyone in the room looks over at the head anthropologist, who thinks about it for a few long moments.

"Throwing an individual from a moving vehicle… does not seem like a very practical method of murdering someone. However, the preliminary profile that Dr. Sweets gave us does say that the killer was most likely either incompetent or not intending to kill. So your theory, while somewhat farfetched, is not entirely unreasonable. I wouldn't rule it out, Mr. Bray."

Wendell immediately looks back down at the bones, hiding a proud smile from the rest of the group. It truly is a pleasure, he finds, to not be shot down by his mentor once in a while.

Everyone in the room quickly returns to their work, to their bones and tissue and particulates. They all fall back into the silent, productive dynamic they're so accustomed to, and the investigation continues.

* * *

The woman in the conference room is calm, leaning an elbow against the table and gently swinging her feet back and forth under her chair, her heels dangling from her toes. Her free hand is holding a cell phone that seems to be holding all of her attention – at least until two suited men enter the room.

The phone does right into her back as she slips her heels back on her feet and stands to greet them.

The older of the two shakes her hand. "Hi, Ms. Darzi, I'm Agent Booth. We spoke on the phone earlier. This is Dr. Sweets."

"I would say it's a pleasure, if we weren't meeting under these circumstances," she says, the tiniest hint of an accent in her voice, as they all sit down around the table. "Chase was a good man. I'm sorry to see him gone."

Sweets nods sympathetically. "Well, that's why we called you in. If you can provide us with some more information about him, maybe it will help us find out what happened."

"Of course," she answers, pushing her dark hair away from her eyes and straightening up in her chair. She gestures for them to begin, and Booth starts asking questions right away.

"Okay, so we know he worked at Stark Digital for about seven years. Can you tell us what he did there?"

"Oh, yeah. He designed and developed graphic advertisements for many of our customers. He would do all the artwork, write the content, everything. And he was excellent at it, too – we never had a single complaint from any of his clients."

"Any complaints from other workers' clients?"

"It's rare that we get complaints, but once in a while it'll happen. Sometimes a customer might be not like the advertisements some of our developers put out, but that's usually not a problem. We work until everyone is pleased."

"It sounds like the company runs very smoothly," Sweets comments. "So I don't suppose there was ever any competition for clients involving Mr. Miller? Anyone jealous of his success?"

The woman shakes her head. "No. At least, no instances of that that I am aware of. Chase's coworkers were all very fond of him, came to him for help and whatnot. He simply did his job, and he did it honestly."

Sweets nods and jots down a few notes as Booth continues the conversation.

"When was the last time you saw him?"

She answers, "About… two weeks ago? Yeah, it was a Friday. End of the week. I remember he was upset. Our computer networks were being updated, and during the process, there was a server crash that made him lose all of his open files for three important clients."

"That must have made him angry."

She nods. "Very. Went right up to one of our IT consultants, yelling and demanding to know what happened and how to fix it right away, and when she tried to fix it and said it couldn't be done he just got so… agitated. I'd never seen him like that, though; it wasn't in his character. It was a huge loss for him, I suppose, a big shock."

"And this IT consultant," Sweets chimes in, looking up from his notes. "How did she respond to his outburst?"

There is a shrug from the woman across from them. "They just argued for a few minutes. I don't recall all of what was said. But in the end, she just kept apologizing and insisting that there was no way to get his files back. Still, he was having none of it, so he walked away."

"And where did he go? Back to his office? Home?"

"The break room. He was there for a while, and I'm not sure when he came back. I was attending to other things at that point. I didn't hear anything from him after that, not even when he clocked out at the end of the day."

Sweets blinks at her, a curious look on his face. "You didn't try to seek him out at all? You never wanted to confront him about what happened?"

"Dr. Sweets, sometimes I find it's best to let things take their course. Chase was very angry and upset, yes, but he would calm down eventually. And there was no doubt in my mind, even before he stormed out of the office, that he would come back sometime on Monday, find the woman he yelled at and _beg _for forgiveness. Like I said, it truly was not in his character to be angry. So how could he _stay_ angry? He just... didn't come back on Monday, you know."

Booth and Sweets look at each other and give each other a minute nod, a silent decision made that they just received the truth from the woman in front of them.

"And this was definitely the last time you saw him?" Booth presses after a few moments of silence. "No phone calls, no emails, nothing?"

Darzi clears her throat and nods, and there's a hint of sadness in her voice, a wistful look in her eyes as she answers, "Absolutely nothing. He didn't even call the office to say he wouldn't be there when he didn't show up the next work day, and he was always very good about that."

She runs her fingers through her hair and pushes it away from her face again before continuing.

"The next thing I heard about him was that his wife reported him missing. Next thing I heard after that, he was dead."

"Well, we're very sorry for the loss," Sweets says. "Thank you very much for helping us. I have no more questions for you today. You?"

He turns to Booth, who shakes his head at Sweets with a quick, "No," and turns back to Darzi.

"Okay, that's all the questions we have for you at the moment. Thank you. If you could send over contact information for that other employee as soon as you can, that would be great. And if we need you again, we'll call."

With a nod, the woman stands from her seat and pulls her bag up off the floor, slings it around her shoulder.

"I'd say any time, Agent Booth," she replies with a grave smile. "But once this case is over with, I'd rather not have to come again. No more dead employees."

She shakes Booth's hand and nods politely at Sweets before leaving the room.

"So you're thinking the other employee could be a suspect?" Sweets asks, swiveling his chair back and forth with his feet. Booth tilts his head back and forth, weighing it in his mind.

"I'm not positive," he admits. "What she just described seems like a normal workplace argument, but it's all we've got to go on right now. Once she sends the contact information, I'll call the IT worker in and we'll pick at her."

"Awesome."

The two stand from their seats and leave the room, Booth flipping the light switch off as he passes through the doorway. The door closes behind them, and the conference room is left silent and dark as the two return to their respective offices and other responsibilities.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello! Here's another update. :) Fun fact: "Day Zero" was supposed to be encompassed in one chapter, but it ended up being about seven thousand words. So that's why it's split. Hope you like the chapter, don't forget to leave a review!**

* * *

"The people in your life tell you that they love you every day, each in their own way. Just as you show these people that you love them in the best way you know how. We owe it to each other to start taking notice of the love surrounding us."  
― Emily Rella

* * *

Day Zero (Part One)

The door to the conference room closes with a muted click as Seeley Booth and Lance Sweets sit down at the table in front of a jittery, nervous-looking tech consultant, whose head is tilted forward so her blonde hair can cover as much of her face as possible. Her hands are clasped together in her lap, shoulders tense, and the only change in her demeanor when the two enter is a slight raise of her head so she can see them.

"Hello, Ms. Hayes. My name is Agent Seeley Booth and this is Dr. Sweets," Booth begins kindly, arranging a few pages of notes and documents in front of him.

The only reply is a quiet, hesitant, "Nice to meet you."

"You seem nervous," Sweets notes, and the woman's discomfort quickly becomes more and more obvious. "Is there a reason why?"

She clears her throat, then, straightens her back. "Of course. My coworker was found murdered a few days ago, and because of an argument I had with him, I'm being called a suspect. That would make anyone nervous, wouldn't you think?"

"Of course. It's a natural reaction when you're under stress. Say the wrong things, you could go to prison, right?"

"Exactly."

"Well, don't worry. We're very careful, and we won't send you anywhere without the right evidence."

Sweets' promise seems to calm her slightly. She nods, gathers her hair and flips it over her shoulder so her face is completely visible.

"Alright, then. What do you need to know?"

"You could start," Booth says, "by telling us about the altercation between you and Mr. Miller. Your boss already told us what she saw – we'd like to hear your side of it."

She nods. "Of course. And you know, Nicole didn't really see the whole thing. She saw him yelling, but that wasn't where it started."

"Alright, then, how did it start?"

"It started when his computer fried. I was in the process of creating a network server for the building; that way we could access files from any computer, you know? So I was running around to everyone's computers, installing the server software. And then I get to his computer, and I ask if I can install the software and he tells me to go for it. He gets up and lets me work. I insert the disc and run through the installation process, but just as it was finishing, his screen went black. The computer just turns off, no shut down, no nothing. I tried turning it back on, of course, but it wouldn't work. The fans just turned on, and a few lights on the keyboard, but nothing else."

"Had he been watching you do this, or just standing by, or…?" Sweets asks, not looking up from his notes as he hurries to finish writing before she starts speaking again.

"No," she answers. "He went to go grab some coffee while I was working, and came back as I was panicking and trying to revive his computer."

"Was that when he started to get angry?"

"Sort of… he didn't explode at first. He just put his coffee down and asked me what wrong, and I told him. He looked really, really freaked out, and he just said, 'Shelby, just tell me you can fix it. You can fix it, right?' And I just couldn't. I tried, I really did. I took the thing apart looking for the problem, and it turned out to be the motherboard. I don't know how it happened, but it was completely fried, so his computer was just dead. Nobody would be able to fix that. And I told him, 'Chase, I'm so sorry, but your computer's gone. If we can find a computer that no one is using, I can insert your hard drive into that and you'll be able to access the files you had saved on it,' and he just covered his face for a few seconds… and got really upset with me then. That's about the time Nicole walked in."

Booth nods. "What did he say to you?"

She bites her bottom lip for a few moments before answering. "He was really angry. I didn't know he could get so angry. I don't remember what he said verbatim, but he was going on about how he had so much work for a bunch of clients on that computer, open in Microsoft Word and unsaved. He kept yelling about how those projects were gone, and the mistake I made was going to cost us so much time and money – you get the picture. And I tried to tell him that it wasn't anything _I_ did that caused the problem, because it wasn't, but he wouldn't listen. He just kept yelling, and I couldn't do anything other than apologize."

"And after that," Sweets says. "He just walked away?"

"Yeah. I didn't see him for the rest of the day after that. It was kind of intentional, to be honest… I didn't want him to get angry at me again."

"Did you see him at all in the following days?"

"No," she answers. "I didn't see him at all, and he was reported missing a few days later."

There's a short silence, then, as the two men jot down a few more notes.

"Sounds like a normal workplace argument," Booth says after a few moments. Sweets nods in agreement as he continues.

"Ms. Hayes, what kind of car do you drive?"

She blinks at him, confused. "My car?"

Booth nods.

"I drive an old Ford Ranger. It's, uh – 1998, I think. I think you can see it from the window, do you want to look?"

Booth gets up from his seat and looks down at the parking lot, squinting through the morning sun. Sure enough, there's an old white pickup truck parked on the far end of the lot. Without looking away from the window, he asks her where she got it.

"I don't see why my car would matter… but an old friend of mine sold it to me cheap a few years ago. Do you need to contact him?"

"Won't be necessary. Thank you, Ms. Hayes, that's all the questions I have for you now. Sweets?"

"I've got everything I need."

Hayes stands quickly and smooths her skirt, grabs her bag, swings it over her shoulder. She shakes Booth's hand as she says goodbye and is out the door in moments.

Booth turns away from the window as the door clicks shut.

"She drives a pickup. You think the victim could have been thrown from it?"

Surprisingly, Sweets shakes his head.

"I don't think so," he says. "First, that would involve _two_ people angry enough at Miller to want to kill him, and based on what we were told, that seems unlikely. And like you said, it sounds like a normal argument. Plus, there's nothing in her behavior to suggest she's even mentally or emotionally capable of murder, so there's that."

The FBI agent lets out a long breath and rubs the back of his neck. He says nothing, though, as Sweets continues.

"But I don't think we should completely eliminate her as a suspect yet. It's unlikely that she did it, but not impossible."

Booth nods. Sweets stands from his seat.

"I do want to talk to Deanna Miller again, though," Sweets adds as they leave the room to return to their work. "I want to see if she can tell us more about the night he left that might give us an idea of where he went."

* * *

Coffee and overcooked French fries. The entire diner is filled with the faint smell of those two things, only one of which is remotely appealing at the moment. He's standing on line, eyeing the menu in spite of already knowing what he wants, prepared to order quickly and go, when he hears his name being called from somewhere behind him.

He pivots around on his heels and finds that this just so happens to be one of those times when the people you meet at random just so happen to be the people you've been needing to see, and he steps right out of line without a second thought.

"Hodgins, Angela!" he says, walking over to a booth by the window where the couple is sitting. "Just the people I wanted to see!"

Angela smiles, getting up from her seat and joining her husband on his side of the table. "Well, I'm glad to hear that! Sit down, Sweets, eat with us!"

He sits down automatically, but gives a small shake of his head, a nearly unnoticeable frown, at the second part of her request.

"Sorry, but I can't stay long. I was just about to grab a coffee to-go and get back to work, but you guys _just_ reminded me that I had something to tell you about the case; okay, so you know - "

Angela interrupts, pressing on with a wave of her hand, "Come on, Sweets! You can take your mind off the case for like thirty minutes and grab something to eat. The world's not going to end if you break for lunch."

"Seriously, eat with us," Hodgins adds, a grin quickly spreading across his face. "We wouldn't want you losing your pants again."

Angela's hand flies up to her mouth as she tries and ultimately fails to stifle a laugh, both at the joke and the resigned, but certainly not surprised, look on the psychologist's face. A complacent and self-satisfied expression finds its way onto Hodgins' features, and the younger man says nothing at first, rubbing a hand across his eyes and pausing to contemplate this. When his palm comes away from his face, he's smiling.

"Hey, thanks, Hodgins!" he says after a few moments.

"For what?"

"For giving that joke a longer lifespan than it was intended to have. I'm sure it enjoyed its extra thirty seconds of use."

Hodgins shakes his head. "Come on, man! You had all that time to think, and that's the best joke you could think of to come back with? I'm disappointed in you. Just disappointed."

Sweets opens his mouth to respond, but is suddenly interrupted by a young waiter, standing by the edge of the table and flipping open a note pad. Hodgins and Angela place their lunch orders, and as soon as the waiter finishes writing, Sweets finds himself on the receiving end of two pushy glares from the married couple across from him. He sighs.

"Just a coffee for me, thank you. To-go."

As the waiter turns around and leaves, he turns back to his friends.

"Five minutes," he says firmly to their amused expressions. "And only because I do have to talk to you about the case. I have to go meet a patient after this."

"Fine. What about the case?" Angela asks.

"Alright, the victim's wife was able to meet with me a second time to discuss the night he left. She had said earlier that he came home agitated and upset, and she just told me today that he actually left the house on a motorcycle. She said it's a black V-Strom he picked up in 2004, and I have the license plate number on my phone. I can text it to you. She said he left the driveway and turned left at the end of their street. Do you think you might be able to track the bike and get an idea of where he might have gone?"

The artist nods her head. "Of course. Once I get back to the lab, I can go through the traffic camera archives and see where it's been. Plus, if anyone else has been using it since then, we'll find out about it."

"Awesome. Anything new from the lab?"

"Nothing really," Hodgins says. "Not since yesterday, when we found traces of leather on his… wait, he drove a motorcycle!"

His sudden loudness makes Angela jump, but Sweets just nods.

"Yeah, and?"

"And we found particulates of leather on his wrists. People on motorcycles often wear leather gloves, right? We were starting to think he was bound, but that obviously wasn't it."

Sweets blinks at him, a crease in his eyebrows. "Wait, but how could the leather get onto the _bones_ if he was just wearing them?"

"I'm not entirely sure," he admits. "I'll have to see when we get back. Maybe, if the gloves were low quality, some fibers could have rubbed off with friction and ended up on the bone after the skin decomposed. There'd probably be some similar particulates around his fingers, if that's the case. I'll check later."

As soon as the scientist finishes speaking, the waiter appears back at the table, seemingly out of nowhere. He places a paper mug on the table.

"Your coffee, sir," he says to Sweets before turning to the other two. "And your food should be out any minute."

The waiter is gone as quickly as he appeared, and Sweets takes the cue to stand from his seat.

"Alright, I gotta get going. You guys have a nice lunch, and I will see you later!"

The psychologist digs through one of his pockets, pulls out a five-dollar bill, and places it in the center of the table. It's a few dollars more than necessary, but he doesn't seem to care.

Angela gives him a sigh as he leaves. "Fine. Enjoy your coffee – you look like you need it. And make sure you eat lunch later!"

Sweets smiles and throws a quick, "Thanks, Mom," over his shoulder before he's out the door of the diner and well on his way back to his office, texting the motorcycle's license plate number to Angela as he walks.

* * *

Today must be one of those days. It's one of those sluggish week days when the clock can't seem to move fast enough and it takes him far too long to get through the work he needs to get done. It's a day that he muddles and stumbles and drags his feet through, and he couldn't be more relieved that it's over.

Except, it's not quite over yet. He's finally leaving work, but he still has more to do before he gets to go home and collapse on his bed for the night like he really wants to. He can only hope that the rest of the day will go by quickly – but he stops himself right there, because whenever he finds himself hoping for something to end, it ends up lasting twice as long. He wouldn't want to jinx himself.

The parking lot is strangely cold as he walks out to his car. As he pulls his jacket tighter around his shoulders and folds his arms in front of him, he looks up at the sky above his head. The sun is far off at the edge of the sky, not quite setting yet, but close to it. There are no clouds to be seen, and the sky is still the same bright blue it was at midday, just with a little bit of purple at the edges. Ah. So it's one of _those_ days, the ones that might feel so much like spring if not for the leaves on the ground and the bite of the cold air. Winter is indeed coming.

He doesn't realize how long he's been tilting his head upwards until he slams into something – or someone – that is most definitely _not_ his car.

"And _that's_ why you should pay attention when you walk in a parking lot."

Sweets snaps back to reality, away from the sky and the strange cold air, to find Booth standing there, laughing at him.

"Oh my god, sorry about that!"

"Don't be," Booth grins at him. "I saw you looking all out if it and walked in front of you on purpose."

"You serious?" Sweets has that resigned look about him, the signature, irritated posture he adopts without realizing it.

"Of course I am," the older man answers. "Seriously, though, you're driving home?"

Sweets nods and looks at him, confused. "Well, not right away. I gotta swing by the doctor to get some results back, then I'm going home. Why wouldn't I drive?"

"Nothing, it's just – I don't know, you still look pretty out of it. You sure it's safe for you to drive?"

Sweets dismisses him with a flippant wave of his hand.

"Says the guy who barely looks at the road when he drives?" he says with a slight chuckle. "Seriously, though, I'm fine. I drove this morning. My car's right over there." He jabs his thumb in the direction of his car and Booth just shakes his head at him.

"And I'm honestly surprised you didn't kill someone on your way here. You looked pretty tired then, too."

Sweets opens his mouth to say something back, but Booth cuts him off.

"And maybe I don't look at the road _all the time_," he admits, "but I know when I shouldn't drive. Come on, I'm all clocked out. I can take you where you need to go."

The younger man seems to contemplate that for a moment before slowly shaking his head.

"No, that's okay. Thanks for the concern, Booth, but it's really fine."

There is a deep sigh from the older man, and a hesitant concession.

"Fine," he finally says. "Just don't kill anyone, okay? Stop at all the stop signs, make full stops before turning right on red -"

"Thanks, Dad," is the response Booth gets, along with a toothy smile and a quiet laugh.

"I'm serious."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow!"

The two split, then, and walk off to their respective cars. The sky overhead has turned a few shades darker without any of them realizing it, though the air seems significantly less bitter than it was a few minutes earlier. The sound of one car door opening and closing echoes through that air, an engine starting up before promptly being turned back off. A car door opens and closes once more.

Booth is almost to his car when he hears a voice behind him.

"Booth!"

"Did you finally come to your senses?" he asks, turning around to face an annoyed, still tired-looking Sweets.

"I did no such thing. Apparently my brakes did, though."

Booth blinks at him, narrows his eyes in confusion.

"Wait, what?"

"I'm pretty sure my brake line just went. I started up and -"

The older man shakes his head dismissively and walks back in the direction of Sweets' car.

"No, that makes no sense. Brakes can't just go when you haven't moved your car in ten hours."

"That's what I thought, but apparently they did."

They reach the car and Booth immediately climbs into the driver's side and starts it up. Sure enough, he tests the brake pedal and finds his foot sinking right down to the floor. He shuts it off and gets up.

"Your brakes went," he says after a few moments, staring incredulously at the car. "That makes absolutely no sense."

He shuts the door as Sweets heaves a sigh. As if he needed a problem like this, one that will take too much time and probably a good amount of money to fix. He vaguely wonders if the day could get much worse as he locks his car and mumbles something to Booth about having his car towed the next day. He looks over at him, and the FBI agent's suddenly got a big, complacent smile on his face.

"So, I'll drive you?"

Another sigh.

"Yeah. But not because you insisted."

"I know. Come on."

The two walk over to Booth's SUV, climb in, and drive away, leaving Sweets' car locked and broken in the parking lot under the clear purple sky and the sun that is just beginning to touch the horizon.

* * *

**A/N: Another fun fact: The bit about the brakes, that actually happened to me. True story. I was learning to drive last year on my mom's tank of an SUV, and she had me stop at the supermarket and pick something up for her. She wanted to bring the car in front of the store so I wouldn't have to walk all the way across the parking lot, but she started up and the brakes were non-existant. I shudder to think what could've happened if they went while I was driving! Aah, anyway, hope you liked the chapter. Review box is right down here!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: There is a bit of fudging here. I'll tell you about it at the end. Enjoy the chapter, and don't forget to leave a review!**

* * *

"You don't need water to feel like you're drowning, do you?"  
― Jodi Picoult, _Nineteen Minutes_

Day Zero (Part Two)

"You can just drop me off here. Thank you."

The car slows significantly for a few seconds in front of the door as Booth glances back and forth between the hospital's drop-off area and an unoccupied parking spot on the nearby curb. He gives his passenger a slight smile and shakes his head.

"Nah, I can wait for you," he says, and as Sweets starts to argue, he cuts him off and continues. "Hey, Bones is still finishing up work and Max has Christine until eight. I got some time. And you said this should be quick, right? I can take you home."

Sweets blinks at him and points out that he could just as easily take a cab. The driver shakes his head yet again as he moves his car to the curb and parks parallel in between two others.

"Why should you take a cab when I can drive you? It's not a problem for me. And to tell you the truth, I kinda feel bad for dragging you out in the middle of the night when you're sick. Least I can do is give you a ride home."

There is a short pause as the younger of the two thinks about this before he finally tilts his head to the side and says, "I swear it would be no inconvenience for me to take a cab home, and it wasn't that big a deal for me to come out that night. But if you want to drive me home, then sure. I have a feeling I wouldn't win the argument anyway."

No sooner does he finish speaking than Booth turns the key backwards in the ignition, and the car's engine does silent. Booth flashes him a complacent smile.

"You're right, you wouldn't. Come on."

The two quickly get out of the car and go inside, and after just a few minutes of waiting and filling out forms, Sweets is called into the office and Booth is left alone in the carpeted waiting area, playing idly with his car keys in one hand and mindlessly tapping at his phone with the other.

* * *

It is the same office he sat in a few days ago, just a little darker. He sits in the same chair, facing the same doctor, surrounded by the same framed doctorates and slightly tilted art on the walls. The same window is on his left, the only difference being the lack of light pouring in through it. Instead of the early afternoon sunlight of that day, the only thing he sees when he looks at that window is the vague reflection of himself, bent and morphed with the curvature of the glass. He looks strange, but for some other reason he can't exactly place. His face is the same face he has stared at in the mirror all his life. It looks no different than it did yesterday, the day before, and the day before that. And his body, in spite of his most recent little bug, is the same body he's always had. He's more or less the same. So what's changed?

His train of thought is interrupted by the soft throat-clearing of the man behind the desk, a sound that seems to echo through the tiny space, and he turns his head to look at him. The same frail doctor that poked and prodded and scanned this and that the last time he was here is looking back at him from under thin wire glasses, biting his bottom lip, quietly tapping the end of his pen on the edge of the table. After a few moments, stretched thin with anticipation, he speaks with a soft voice and a formal tone.

"Good evening, Mr. Sweets," he says, reaching forward to shake the psychologist's hand. "How are you today?"

"I'm okay. How are you?"

"I am… okay. Thank you," the old doctor gives him a tilted smile that quickly disappears and gives way to the serious expression he had before. "Alright, we'll get right to it, shall we? Let's take a look at your file."

The man's tone is careful and somewhat subdued as he turns a page on his clipboard and keeps his eyes trained on the paper instead of the young man in front of him.

He takes a short pause before jumping right in. "When you were here a few days ago, you reported symptoms of fatigue, abdominal pain, and a soreness in your back, correct?"

Sweets just nods, though the doctor does not look up to see it. The man just seems to go on automatically, in a conversation with himself to which Sweets is just an observer.

"Yes. And your physical showed a fair amount of weight loss. I assume you have not been dieting."

The young man in the chair in front of the desk just blinks at him for a moment, turns his head and stares back at his reflection in the glass. The pointed edge of his jaw, the cheekbones that are only slightly more visible, all twisted by the glass, catch his eye. He starts to answer the doctor, starts to say the _no_ on his lips, the _I haven't been_ in his teeth, but the doctor keeps on speaking and Sweets realizes that what he said was not a question.

"We also got your blood work back, which explains your fatigue. Right now your blood is deficient in iron, making you moderately anemic. That can be alleviated with an iron supplement, but that will only be a temporary fix and… cannot fix the root of the problem."

Sweets' head turns back from the window to look at the doctor, who has turned away from him to leaf through a file cabinet against the wall behind the desk, directly underneath a framed doctorate on the wall. He emerges holding a few thick photo sheets, and something tightens in Sweets' chest.

"The... root of the problem, sir?" He is suddenly very, very small.

He barely hears the doctor's murmured _yes_. Instead, his eyes latch right onto the photos in the man's hand. Those laminates, all they are, they're just pictures of the inside of his abdomen. And it's the same abdomen he's had all his life, the very same thing. The only difference right now is the big white blotch covering part of the pictures.

He opens his mouth to say something about it, but nothing comes out. So the doctor goes on.

"We got the results of that MRI scan. And, as you can see… we found a – an _irregularity_."

Sweets can't do much more than blink at the photos in the doctor's hands and murmur a barely intelligible response.

"That... doesn't look regular."

The doctor nods, his eyes cast away from his patient, and points to that big, white, suddenly harrowing blotch on that paper.

"The scan revealed a tumor in the abdominal cavity, possibly originating in the peritoneum. The technicians estimated an approximate size of ten centimeters across."

"That's..."

"Very large. Especially for what looks like a soft-tissue tumor."

Sweets can't take his eyes off the picture in front of him. He stares until his eyes start to go dry, and then he keeps on staring. A thought, big and scary and dark, springs up behind his eyes. His voice is tiny and shaky as he carefully asks the one question on his mind.

"The - the tumor, is it... uh...?"

"Malignant?" the doctor fills in, placing the scans down on his desk, forcing his patient to find something else to stare at. He still does not look at Sweets, and if he is feeling any emotion at the moment, his face doesn't show it. "The results of the bloodwork and other exams indicate that... it is very likely."

The silence in the room is palpable and thick, with Sweets saying absolutely nothing, waiting for the words the doctor just said to mean something. He is given time to let those words sink in, but his head feels more like an umbrella than a sponge. Words sit right on top, sliding across the surface, bounce right off and onto that carpeted floor beneath him. It's suddenly raining very, very hard and he doesn't yet know if he is wet or not.

"So," he says, his lungs trembling as he speaks. "So you're saying that this – this tumor, it could be, uh… it's probably…."

He takes a deep breath and forces the word out like boiling water through his teeth.

"Cancer?"

"Yes." The doctor meets his eyes, and that's it.

There. Right there, in that office, in that single moment – he is very, very glad he is a psychologist. Because if he weren't, he'd be scared beyond function. He might space out, his vision blurry and out of focus. He might be panicking inside his mind, with his breathing minutely picking up and his heartbeat so loud in his ears that he can't hear most of what the doctor's saying about _biopsies_ and _a few more tests to make sure _and _rising cure rates_ and a bunch of other things that he obviously hears because he's obviously so present and attentive. If he weren't a psychologist, his hands might start shaking and sweating and sliding on the wooden arms of the chair where he's got them in a death grip. If he weren't a psychologist, he might not have a single clue of what to do or how to think or what to say. But psychologists always know what to do, of course, and he's one of the best. So he knows exactly what to do, he does. He knows exactly how to clear his head and think and calm himself down, because he's a psychologist, and psychologists like him are always levelheaded and calm and collected and

"Mr. Sweets?"

His eyes just barely focus back on the doctor in time for him to hum in response.

"Did you hear what I said?"

He blinks and takes a few moments before answering.

"Uh… yeah. Just… could you say it again? Just to make sure I, uh… got everything."

The doctor gives him a halfhearted smile, nods a bit, and repeats himself.

"I said that we will need to schedule a biopsy as soon as possible so we can give you a proper diagnosis. Once we're finished here, you can schedule it with the front desk. And when you come back, basically what we're going to do is insert a thin needle into the front of your abdomen in order to take a tissue sample. Then we'll send it out to a lab, and we should get those results and an official diagnosis within a few more days. In the meantime, I want you to keep your head up."

He pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and gets up from his seat to go look through another cabinet on a different wall. When he returns, he's got a few pamphlets in his hand and extending his arm to Sweets, who just looks at them for a few moments before taking them.

Words and phrases like _fine needle aspiration_ and _remission_ and _recurrence_ stick out to the young psychologist, and for a fleeting moment, he's so sure this must be a dream. It _must_. But then he glances at the clock and finds that time has gone by, far more time than he was expecting to pass, and something in his chest aches with the knowledge that this is not something his mind created. He knows enough about dreams to know what is real.

And what's real is the doctor in front of his face telling him not to worry about his probable cancer just yet because "cure rates for many different cancers have been rising, especially in the past few years."

What's real is that doctor placing a hand on his shoulder and assuring him, "I know many skilled and talented oncologists that I can refer you to that will do their absolute best to find you a cure if the biopsy confirms my suspicions."

What's real is his heart still hammering against his ribs and his throat that's dry as hell and the fact that he's still going to worry, no matter how many assurances he receives. He is and will still be terrified.

He is soaking, soaking wet and shaking from the cold and his umbrella has been absolutely useless, and the clouds are darker than anything he's ever seen before and the storm is certainly not ending anytime soon.

* * *

It is a damn good thing that his friend reappears in the hospital lobby when he does, because Seeley Booth was just about ready to climb back into his car and leave him there. Having used up most of the remaining battery on his phone and run out of nearby people to talk to, all he had left to do was stare at the wall, immensely regret his insistence on being nice, and wonder what the _hell_ was taking so long. At one point, he even walked outside to his car and seriously considered sending Sweets a quick text and going home – but, as that would probably keep him up at night, he turned around and went right back inside to stare at the wall some more.

"Nice and quick. Yeah. Sure."

He had just about had it with all that time being wasted, but then – when he's just about ready to walk right into wherever that kid is and yank him out – he finally shows up.

Booth sighs as he rises from his chair. He can't _really_ be mad. That's illogical; it was, after all, Booth's own choice to stay, and he all but forced Sweets to let him drive him home. And so what if he underestimated the time it would take? That's an honest mistake. He can't be mad about that. He can, however, give the psychologist a very hard time about it, and that's just what he's prepared to do. He watches Sweets talk with the receptionist - even that seems to take forever - and is trying to pull the most irritated expression in his repertoire as he turns around, but –

Sweets walks right by him. He walks right by, without even looking in his direction, and Booth just stands there, confused, watching him walk through the lobby and out of the building. Did he just _forget_ he was here? No, how could he forget? An hour and a half was a terribly long time to be in a doctor's office, but that's not a long enough time to forget who's driving him home. With another sigh, Booth starts to walk after him, resolving to give Sweets the hardest time _imaginable_ because this whole wait has been long and frustrating. And also because he can.

He is met with cold November air and a dark sky when we walks through the automatic doors. The sidewalk and the circle of pavement are surprisingly empty, and the floodlights on the wall are dim and occasionally flickering over the heads of the only two people on the ground.

Booth sees Sweets with his back against the wall of the building, staring off somewhere, and hangs back and just looks at him for a few moments. Something doesn't look right. Something in the kid's eyes that Booth can't exactly place.

He forgets about whatever snarky comment he was originally going to make and just walks over to Sweets and leans against the wall next to him. A few minutes pass with nothing but a quiet _hey_ on Booth's part.

After a few more minutes of silence, Booth speaks again.

"You okay?" he asks with a casual tone and a flicker of concern in his eyes and the realization that he has never seen the psychologist so quiet.

Sweets, he looks down at himself for a second and contemplates that. Booth still can't read his face.

"Uh... yeah," Sweets finally says. "Just, uh... just give me a second."

And with that, he slides down the wall into a sitting position, the fabric of his suit jacket snagging on the bricks of the wall as he goes. Booth watches as he tries to be discreet about the deep breaths he's taking, in through his nose and out through the tiniest part in his lips, silent as ever. After another few moments of standing there, wondering what to do, Booth joins him on the sidewalk. He says nothing. He just waits.

He doesn't know how long they sit there. What he does know is that night has completely fallen, and the air around them has gotten terribly cold. Only a handful of people have walked by where they're sitting, moved around Sweets half-extended, half bent legs, and paid them no mind. The lights are still flickering overhead. He's just about to ask Sweets again, try and get him to say something, when the younger man takes a deep, shuddering breath and speaks of his own accord.

"I, uh... just made an appointment... for a biopsy..."

It takes a few seconds for the words to register, and even then, Booth still needs to make sure he heard right.

"...What?"

Sweets looks up and Booth is suddenly able to see the muted terror in his eyes. Something in him hurts at the sight of it as Sweets continues, his voice quiet and small.

"They found a… a tumor. Somewhere," he says, loosely waving a hand over his midsection. "Said it's, uh... pretty big. Probably malignant."

Booth looks down at his own gut, wondering how it could be possible for him to have been punched in the stomach so hard without anything having touched him. His mouth is sewn shut and he can't figure out how to cut the threads.

"Shit."

Sweets hangs his head down again, having finished his recap, and Booth takes up the mantle of staring off into space. It takes a while, but he soon recovers enough of his wits to stand up and pull Sweets up with him by his shoulder. The psychologist offers no resistance as Booth leads him back to the SUV waiting diligently by the side of the road and gently pushes him towards the passenger side before walking around the car to climb into his seat. Neither of them says anything as he pulls away from the curb and drives off, and neither of them says anything when Booth ends up driving right past Sweets' street, and nothing is said about the fact that, for once, Booth keeps his eyes on the road the entire time.

* * *

**A/N: The fudging here is the incorrect diagnosis process. In reality, the process is much longer, with many more tests and such. I tried to condense the process while maintaining a little bit of accuracy, but it's still a bit off. So that's that.**

**Also, next week's chapter might be a little late. Just giving you a heads up!**

**Review box is right down here. Have at it. **


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hey, there. Sorry. I'm awful. Remember when I said chapter six would be a little late, right before I dropped off the planet for like two months? Yeah, I suck. My bad. Work happened, now senior year - so much fun. You can probably guess now that updates won't be coming every week. Sorry!  
**

**Whatever. Hope this chapter was worth the long wait. And if it wasn't, the review box is right down there for you to tell me! Enjoy!**

* * *

"I don't feel very much like Pooh today," said Pooh.  
"There, there," said Piglet. "I'll bring you tea and honey until you do."  
― A.A. Milne, _Winnie-the-Pooh_

Day Zero (Part Three)

Even as the car rolls up to the gate at the top of the driveway, crunching a few bits of loose gravel under its tires, the two people in the car do not say a single word. Not one. And when the car shuts off and goes quiet, they sit in silence for God knows how long, staring forward through the windshield at absolutely nothing. After all, what is there to look at? What is there for them to do? They're well and truly winging it, now, and the ride can't be bumpier. That clear air above their heads, it's heavy and thick and damn near impossible to see through, let alone fly in. So what do they do?

What can you possibly say to someone who just got told he probably has cancer? _It'll be okay_ and _don't worry_ and _you'll be fine_ – none of those will ever cut it. Empty, shaking words like those just fall on ears belonging to a person that will still worry and panic, no matter what anyone says. They fall on ears belonging to a person that will probably still be very sick at the end of the day, and nothing that Seeley Booth can say to Lance Sweets will change any of that. So what now?

He's tired of the silence that's blocking their way. It's tense and it's tedious and it's time for it to end.

He moves without thinking, at first, opens the car door and climbs out of his SUV before he can think of what to do next, in true Seeley Booth style. And before he closes the door, he pokes his head back inside and speaks directly to the psychologist in the passenger seat, who's still just staring off at God knows what. He's looking less and less like a psychologist with each second that goes by, and more and more like some regular, terrified guy: not quite Lance Sweets.

"Hey," Booth says. Sweets turns his head to look at him as he nods towards the house. "Come on."

The shrink hits the button to unlock his seatbelt but doesn't move. He looks away for a moment.

After a small forever, he mumbles, "Booth, you don't have to -"

"Doing it anyway. _Come on_."

With no small amount of hesitation, Sweets slowly gets out of the car and follows Booth into the house, hands in his pockets, head tilted down. His feet move slowly through the familiar grass in front of the garden, and he stumbles when they find the base of the cement steps, but if Booth notices, he says nothing about it. Booth opens the door, and the squeal of the hinges, soft as it is, echoes through the hallway and bounces off the walls, the furniture, the insides of both their skulls. Their entrance does not go unnoticed.

"Booth?" Brennan's voice sounds from the kitchen, complemented by the hum of a working stove top and the _clink clink clink_ of a spoon handle against the edges of a pot. "You're later than you said you'd be."

The two walk right into room, Booth giving her a halfhearted smile and a soft apology, Sweets hanging back by the doorway. And Brennan, plain and simple, she says it's fine before looking over at the psychologist by the door. There's a tiny crease in her forehead, the slightest hint of surprise in her tone as she greets him.

"Hi, Sweets. Would you like to join us for dinner? We can set up three plates."

His response is a quick and quiet, "No, thank you." And apparently he's fine. At least, he says as much. But then he hears a tiny voice in his head and feels a pair of eyes digging into him, and he tells the good and honest truth.

"I'm not hungry."

Booth walks right by Brennan and reaches up to the cabinet to grab three plates. He sets them on the counter by the stove as she turns it off and goes on speaking. "Hey, come on, we'll set up three plates. Eat with us, we'll -"

"_Booth_," is the response Sweets gives. There is no irritation in his voice, no frustration. Just soft insistence that makes the agent stop, holding the third plate in his hands, and look Sweets in the eye. He's not quite sure what he sees.

"I'm not hungry. It's okay."

The third plate finds its way back to the top of the stack in the cabinet, and Booth just nods.

And Brennan, she stops setting up the plates for a fraction of a second and looks at the two. Booth starting to rummage through another cabinet, eyes cast away – Sweets shuffling his feet by the doorway, shoulders tense, head tilted down. It is a strange sight. She turns back to the plates and hears Sweets walking over to her, murmuring the softest _May I help?_ she's ever heard. And she starts to say no.

"Of course not," she says, a smile in the part of her lips. "You are our guest, seeing as you don't live here anymore. Plus, as you've declined to eat with us, there is no need. We can take care of it."

And she starts to go back to what she's doing, but the idle movement of Sweets' fingers in the corner of her eye and the fact that she can feel the tension in his body through the air has her looking back up at him and recanting what she just said before she has time to think about it.

"But if you would really like to, you can grab the silverware. You know where it is."

Sweets nods and goes off to do just that, and the table ends up being completely set an impressive thirty seconds faster than usual. Well – almost completely.

"Booth, come on –"

"Just a second. I'll be right there."

Brennan sighs and props her head up with her hands. She glances from the plates on the table to Sweets, who is sitting at the table in spite of a place not being set for him, and back to the kitchen, where Booth is dawdling. Something, she decides, is very, very strange tonight; and she's going to find out what it is. She no sooner opens her mouth to speak, though, than Booth strides right back into the room, sliding something across the table to stop where Sweets' plate would be before sitting down in his chair without a word.

And the psychologist, he stares down at the sudden cup of tea that's wrapped in his hands, still steeping and steaming and hot. It takes a few moments for the small _thanks_ to come out. And Booth tells him not to mention it. He doesn't.

And so the (arguably) most awkward dinner in Lance Sweets' life begins and goes on in silence – all clinking silverware and downturned faces and turning gears behind each forehead. They only make it about halfway through, however, before Brennan finally speaks.

"Admittedly," she sighs, rests her fork on the plate, sits back in her chair. "I am not extremely skilled in picking up social cues. However, I _can_ tell that something is wrong. And I'd very much appreciate it if one of you would tell me what it is."

There are suddenly open, empty spaces hanging in the air where answers should be. Bitten bottom lips, turned away eyes, but no words. A perfect ocean of silence that is rippled when Sweets finally clears his throat and speaks, eyeing the mug in front of him with renewed interest.

"I apologize for the… strange behavior – Dr. Brennan. Um… perhaps I shouldn't have come… tonight. Car's busted, though, so I guess I didn't have much of a choice, huh?" The chuckle trapped in his chest withers and dies before it can reach his teeth. "So, uh… anyway…"

He continues to stammer as Booth continues to say nothing.

"My, uh – my car is totally mess, right, you know – Booth offered to drive me over to meet my doctor to get my physical results, and basically…"

He forces his head up so he can look Brennan in her curious, now slightly concerned eyes, and suddenly he's trapped. He's caught, now, with his bad hand, and there's no way out of it.

Long story short:

"'Surprise!'" he says in a sort of whisper-shout, a thin smile on his face that doesn't reach his eyes. "'We found a giant tumor and you probably have cancer.'"

And his fingers can't move away from the heat of that teacup.

Brennan's face turns to reflect something that, for once, Lance Sweets can't decipher. Even Booth has a difficult time placing that look in her eyes, the precise way her jaw is set and the soft creases of her forehead. Her quiet, "Oh," is without any discernable tone, the "That explains it," purely observational. She turns her head away and the silence sweeps back over them like snow.

The plates of dinner are suddenly far less appetizing than they were before.

"Where is it?" Brennan asks after a few moments. If the circumstance disappeared in that moment, she could be asking where some specific fracture was on some obscure bone. Sweets closes his eyes – and for one fleeting moment, that's true. And then that moment's gone. And it isn't so. Not anymore.

He clears his throat.

"Abdominal cavity."

She nods. The snow swirls around their heads.

After years and years, Brennan brings a lungful of air deep into her chest and sends it quickly back out, her voice carried on her breath to the far corners of the room.

"While cancer is an illness that many people fear for its poor survival rates and poor manageability," she says to the opposite wall, "I find it necessary to keep in mind that treatment success rates for many cancers have significantly increased over the last few decades. Not to mention the fact that medical science and technology are consistently improving, which makes it very likely that survival rates will in turn continue to increase. With many talented minds behind such innovations, I would not be shocked to see a continued increase in the next few years."

She sits perfectly still in her seat, the room around the three of them frozen. It remains that way until they finally get up and clear the table, silent as they do so. The tea, cold and untouched, goes down the drain. And in the stretch of time that follows, Sweets gathers up his voice and looks to his two hosts.

"Hey, uh… thanks. Thank you for… for having me tonight. Thanks. And, Booth – if it's not a problem, I – I'd like to go home. If that's alright."

"Of course," the words slide easily into the air as the older man grabs his keys from the dish on the island and goes to retrieve his jacket, leaving Sweets to give a small and earnest _thank you_ to Brennan.

He stands close to her for a long, unsure moment, his hand hovering in the air between them before the anthropologist ignores it and instead goes forward to wrap her arms around his waist. After God knows how long, his arms find their way around her shoulders; and they stay like that for a few silent moments before pulling apart. He nods to her one last time and follows Booth out to his car so he can finally go home.

* * *

"Yeah, I took my house key off the set, I can just go in. Thanks."

The car slows to a gentle stop at the top of the driveway, and as Booth turns the key back and kills the engine, a small light by the rearview mirror flicks on and they both just sit, a perfect parallel of before. Sweets' key is in his hand and the things he took out of his car are crammed into his briefcase by his feet, ready to be taken into the house. And after a brief second of hesitation, he starts to get out.

"Hey, Sweets," Booth says, and the other man stops immediately. "Don't come to work tomorrow."

And the light in the car starts to dim, so Sweets swings the car door out to turn it back on before looking back at the agent in the driver's seat.

"Booth, whatever happened today, I can't just skip work. We have a case –"

"We have a case that can handle a day or two without you. Look, don't worry about it; we're sort of in a slow spot anyway, and if we need some more psych work done, we can borrow someone else. Just – just take a day. At least."

Sweets looks up to his home for a long moment and turns back to Booth.

"I have to be there for them to tow my car."

"Don't worry about it; I'll take care of it.

The autumn wind blowing around them is all they can hear for the next few moments, and Sweets gives an involuntary shiver before he can meet Booth's eyes and nod.

"Okay. Fine. Thank you."

And the FBI agent smiles at him in his victory, saying, "Good. Now go get some sleep," before sending the psychologist on his way and pulling out of the driveway.

* * *

Day One

He could have slept for ten hours, or he could have slept for ten minutes. He has no clue – not that it makes much of a difference. A questionable session of tossing and turning and staring at cracks in the ceiling, no matter the length, tends not to be very restful at all, so when he has to drag himself up from his bed, head heavy and aching, it comes as no huge surprise.

His hand finds the phone sitting on the nightstand beside him and, by pure force of habit, checks it, to find a single message from Booth. Car's all taken care of, and the case continues to run as smoothly as it was yesterday – nothing unexpected. He gives some generic response before tossing his phone onto his covers.

His feet carry him to the bathroom without a thought. He's in and out of a hot shower in what seems like a few short minutes, but he can't really be sure. His mind is fogged up by the shower steam, and time doesn't move in quite the same way it did before.

He drags himself out and pulls a pair of jeans, and as the steam blows away from the room and the mirror starts to clear up, he's faced with nothing but his own reflection. And it takes a few long moments for him to realize that the man in the mirror with the tired eyes and dripping hair and the shirt gripped tight in his hands is him. But he does, and he ends up dropping his shirt on the floor in that moment and gripping the edge of the sink instead.

Words and images and memories from the night before are suddenly everywhere – not that they ever left. They're brought to the front of his attention, now, and he's sincerely having trouble believing that last night was not a dream. So he pushes himself off the sink and looks the hazy reflection of himself in the eye before taking his shaking hands and pushing his fingers into his abdomen.

And his fingers sink down, just like they would if he were doing this any other time.

But he keeps going, and pushes just a little bit harder until his stomach won't go in any more. And instead of feeling the same old relaxed muscles that he knows are there, there's something harder beneath his fingers that suddenly _hurts_. It hurts like it's been hurting for the past few weeks, only worst now for having been touched. Any and all hopes of this being a dream vanish in that very second – because dreams are never supposed to hurt like that.

And his hands drop to his sides in one final motion. He bends down to pick up his shirt and pulls it on before turning away from that mirror and stumbling back into his bedroom, his hair still dripping from shower water and this new reality he has to live in.

By pure force of habit, he checks his phone once more when he comes to stand by his bed. There's one more message from Booth, and, honestly, he probably could have foreseen the simple, "_How are you doing?" _that blinks back up at him.

And Sweets, he doesn't even give a one-word answer. His phone drops back onto the bedcovers as it did before, and all he can do now is turn around and walk away.

* * *

**A/N: I'll probably go back and edit this last part sometime tomorrow. Any tips? Hope you enjoyed it. Reviews would be lovely.**


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